


Better the demon you know

by captainhurricane



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One's got wings, one has.. deals?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better the demon you know

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2010. Found on my old LJ. Wanted to share! :D

It’s a typical dark and stormy, although not really, just extremely windy, night on Earth, days and days and weeks after the Apocalypse, Crowley has already lost count and it's not like he cares. There are still souls to get, deals to make, the world hasn't stopped on its tracks because the divine war faded into oblivion. In a particularly quiet moment in the eye of the storm, Crowley hears something outside of his manor. Something that isn’t the rattling and howling of the wind which is almost a hurricane around his manor. Or rather, sees, since the glow of flames is very clearly visible through the glass windows. The fancily-dressed demon frowns and sets down his wine glass. 

“What?” He accidentally says aloud, walks to the window and finds that source of the orange yellow red flames is a car, not just any car, but Bentley 1926, beautiful and black, burning but not burning. There’s a man standing next to it, black suit, black hair, black sunglasses and what just might be a sly grin. Crowley huffs, not sure if he likes the sense of familiarity from this sunglasses-wearing person. The demon tightens his wine-red tie and checks to make sure that his short, brown hair and black suit are okay when he steps outside, walking closer, curious. This other man isn’t an angel, or a human, that much he can say. 

“Might I ask, what are you doing on my property?” Crowley says and his accent more clear than usual. The man in sunglasses grins even wider, red glow from the burning but not burning car reflecting from his glasses.

“I apologize, mister Crowley. My name is Anthony J. Crowley and it’s my first time around these parts. I’m not too fond of demons in general, but a word goes around that you’re a good man,” the other Crowley says confidently. Shorter Crowley huffs again, but is amused.  
“Aren’t you one? A demon?” The taller Crowley takes off his sunglasses, his yellow snake-eyes glinting and he has the decency to look mildly irritated. His slightly pointy teeth are rather white, the demon notes with interest.  
“I am more like a... angel of Hell,” the taller one continues and looks proud. The Bentley looks a little less flaming.   
“I’m sure,” shorter Crowley says and makes an amused noise, doesn't trust the other but he never does, what kind of a demon would he be?

“So, namesake… why is your very delightful car burning?” he continues, nodding his head towards the car that looks vaguely ominous in the middle of all that fire. The taller man narrows his snake-eyes and shrugs.  
“It just caught fire. It has done that two times before; it will go out soon enough.”   
“It’s a very lovely car. Year 1926, isn’t it?”   
“Why yes.” 

“You still haven’t answered my question properly,” the demon says. The self-proclaimed fallen angel nods towards the house.  
“I just need company for tea. My usual companion ditched me and I am rather lonely.”   
To an outsider, the two people would look extremely suspicious, even without the burning but not burning Bentley. The shorter Crowley looks just like a normal British man, black suit and shirt sleek and ironed, tie in a very straight line, short dark hair in perfect condition, but always with an aura of something that hints that he is not quite human. The taller Crowley could pass for a normal passerby, if it wasn’t for his yellow eyes.   
“I sure hope my neighbours are not going to be very happy about this lightshow, but I don’t really mind them,” demon Crowley says with a sarcastic tone and starts walking to his manor, the taller one right behind him, sunglasses put in his pocket. 

They reach inside, when the demon puts a hand to the fallen angel’s chest and offers a professional smile, which he takes great pride of.  
“Show your wings. You still have them, don’t you?” Taller Crowley reveals his teeth and when the lightning flashes, there are the wings. They are large, only shadows of what they could have been, but the demon is sure he sees flash of a colour that is not black, but not as light as white.  
“Alright, good enough,” he says and swaggers, snapping his fingers to call his servants. 

“Tea for two,” he commands, the master of the house, so human in his movements, which the taller Crowley has to stop for a while and look and grin and think of Aziraphale and his light eyes and all those books. Taller one follows and the two of them, the fallen- “I did not quite fall, but not exactly flutter down, I’m no feather, after all – “ – and the demon, an elegant tea set between them, the glow of newly-born lightings and the lessening flames of the Bentley as their background.

“You’re not here for tea,” says the master of the house, the twist of his lips turning slightly demonic. The taller being squints his eyes at him and he’s laughing inwardly, emptying his third cup of tea already and thinking of Aziraphale in all of his angelness and then he stops thinking about that, all concentration on this familiar creature in front of him.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I’ve come make a deal with the King of Crossroads,” this sun-glassed Crowley says smugly and leans back on the velvet-covered chair. They stare at each other for seconds that tick into minutes, before there’s a twist of lips at the other side of the table.

“I’m not one for flattery usually, but – what is it that you want?” The not-so self-proclaimed King leans forward, so curious and so delighted, no one comes by his manor anymore, angels are back in Heaven, most of the demons back in Hell, the Winchesters wherever they belong to. The slightly more British Crowley feels excited and it feels good. Another lighting flashes, thunder rumbles and there’s the quivering sound of large feathers, when the taller one also leans forward and he’s like a snake with wings, fangs slightly bared, eyes narrow and smiling.   
He whispers the words, just few words to the shorter Crowley’s ear and they both laugh and then there’s lots of grabbing each other by the neck and so-called kissing or more like crushing their mouths together, because that’s how the dealing works. There’s also shuffling and movement and a click, but they pay no heed to that. The storm starts to rage around them, the Bentley stops burning but neither notices. 

The tea is traded for Scotch – lots of it- and they talk about the Apocalypse, the shorter Crowley, the one who’s a King, lets out few whiny sounds about that damn gun and the taller Crowley isn’t sure what he means, but he doesn’t ask, instead tells of a blond Antichrist and an equally blond angel that’s about his best friend and only friend, because they’ve seen each other for two thousand years and the angel called Aziraphale is not a pure little feathery thing -   
King of Crossroads tells of crossroads and the Winchester brothers and the Colt that didn’t kill the Devil like it was supposed to do, but all’s well, I suppose and then both of them pat each other in the back and get more and more drunk and say good job, lad, you were brilliant in this end of the world-business, although they never usually say lad to anyone. It takes every bottle of Scotch the manor has to get them wasted, but it’s worth it.

The sunglasses end up crushed under someone’s foot, the black suits end up wrinkly and messed up, but snake-eyes glisten with tears of laughter when the shorter Crowley recites the tale of when he made a deal with a grumpy old hunter named Bobby. It’s different than getting drunk with Aziraphale, because he’s an angel and here’s another Crowley, another demon like him and the taller Crowley is happy being drunk, ignoring the invisible, almost non-existent wings and their floppy silent fluttering. They could make themselves sober, with a snap of fingers and a thought, but they won’t. There’s a storm coming, The Devil, the Big Boss, Satan is back in his cell, all the little annoyances are out of the way and the deal is on its way, what better way to celebrate.

The storm rattles and rumbles and the rain glistens on the hood of the pitch-black Bentley, but it doesn’t stay wet, the water slides off it like it was protected by its demonic aura, spurned from the years spent with its demonic master, who’s currently swearing he didn’t fall, but saunter downwards and the master of the house is laughing and his tie is so loose it slips off like in a hurry to get away from the two demons. 

Morning finds both of them sober, drinking tea and staring out of the window, sunglasses once again hiding yellow eyes, the wine-red tie where it belongs. They smirk and have come to a mutual understanding, when the taller one leaves, the black car disappearing from the yard so easily the master of the house could have sworn he saw it fade into thin air. 

He trades his tea for wine and hums a tune. What souls and deals would this Apocalypse-less day bring, he wonders and wonders if he should call someone, just to be irritating.


End file.
